


Art

by stubborn_jerk



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient History, Art as a Subject, Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), Canon-Typical Blasphemy, Character Study, Crowley-centric (Good Omens), Gen, Genderfluid Character, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, M/M, Worldbuilding, YMMV on their relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22198195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stubborn_jerk/pseuds/stubborn_jerk
Summary: "What kind of sorry excuse for a historical museum doesn't touch up on the paint jobs!"Aziraphale blinked up at the statue. "Well, they did just steal these from foreign countries. I don't know what to tell you, dear, these buildings are just over-glorified trophy cabinets.""That's beside the point," Crowley seethed, curling in on himself. "This used to be such a colourful piece, now it looks like, like—""Like a black and white photograph?""No, that's the thing. Black and white photos still have that—that thing where you know there’s colours there, just no hues or saturation.”“Value?”“Yeah, that, sure. This is just whitewashed bullshit," he groused.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Art

**Author's Note:**

> note: if i tag 'Good Omens – Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett,' that means it has primarily book ideas. same goes if i use the 'Good Omens (TV)' tag. So, this fic is mainly according to the book's timeline (which has Armageddon around the 1990s instead of the 2010s) and character interpretation (with aziraphale being less openly clueless and more affectionate and crowley being more vulnerable and introspective)

Greece was full of colour. Not to say that Greece was the only region with it, but Crowley remembered Greece specifically for its oversaturation in all the arts. After all, art before Christ died, if not commissioned (in later cases) or made for human entertainment, was indulgent, accidental, or underrated.

Crowley remembered the festivities at every polis in every city-state. The music, the dancing, the quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

He hadn't stayed in one polis for too long for want of dry land after the Almighty melted all those bloody glaciers* and flooded specifically just Mesopotamia**. Greece was made up of a lot of coastal towns, he found, and quite a lot of bodies of water everywhere around it. 

[*This was information he borrowed directly from the minds of human scholars. Sensible, clever buggers, they are. Hell liked to withhold information they found meaningless, so they ignored any and all questions a being like Crowley thought up in their spare time***. Humans, though. Called his method _science_. Oh, if only it were true.

**Despite buggering Intelligent Design, floods were reported everywhere on Earth. Crowley thought that it was the Almighty's own lesson on cause and effect, if you don't mind his blasphemy.

***Ironic, considering Crowley was cast down (or rather, fell off) specifically for asking too many. Shouldn’t Hell encourage curiosity?]

For this reason, Crowley had loved Arcadia the most. Closest to his ideal Eden (if there hadn’t been any need for that apple and sword business). Barring, of course, the divergence from celestial tongue*. 

[*Babel, in Crowley's opinion, was struck down specifically to spite him; took the comfort of Heaven right out of Mankind. All he did was tell them they were doing a good job from experience. Whoever said Crowley wasn't allowed to tell the humans they inherited Creation? Not Beelzebub or Hastur or bloody Lucifer, that's for sure.]

Arcadian towns were sparse, despite the valley's abundance. That meant that everything was greener and wider than everywhere else in Greece. The sky was bluer in the mornings and the stars, brilliant distant things, he made them; they seemed ever so brighter, especially after three skins of wine. It was no man's land because it was Crowley's.

Distance from urban civilisation didn't mean that the arts here were less vibrant than there. Statues, busts, sculptures, frescoes, vases with the little pricks drawn on the side; the crafts of bored masons with too much free time were as colourful as all else, and Crowley loved it. 

Colouring in after all the sculpting and drying and mixing was so meaningless, so hard to do. Ingredients to be gathered, crushed, pulverised into powders, mixed into water and oil into something more than the original product.

There was no explanation for it, no justification available. It was pure indulgence from palette to stone, trying to capture life in a sorry state of static. Humans, Crowley grew to learn after Eden, were _obsessed_ with going against the grit of Time. They all had such short lives and so little time to process things as everything kept running past them. Arts were a way to bind them in, give them time to think and learn.

For his fascination, Crowley liked to help artists gather ingredients sometimes, maybe even give the humans some rose pigments from Chinese mountains and Indian plant roots of the most vibrant reds and yellows. Miraculously, slabs of rock appeared to have been dragged from some sorry cave or high mountain to the artist’s garden, their tools sharpened and the rock carving going like knife to butter. They let him watch (or sometimes, he hid in trees or bushes just to do so without all the needling questions about his eyes).

Creation for creation's sake. Crowley loved it.

Humanity was saturated, and it only got more vivid as time went on.

That was, until…

* * *

"Francis, look at this!" He hissed*. He waved his cane at the direction of the statue. 

[*Not sibilantly, they were in public.]

Aziraphale trotted up to it, peering down at the nameplate. Crowley remembered exactly who made it, what materials were used, and where they left it so he didn't bother. He was too busy glaring up at the thing.

"Plaque says they recovered it in 1521* in what used to be Arcadia. Hm, don't remember ever going there." The angel stood beside him. "Ever been?"

[*To provide context, neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had found the value in visiting museums or any place citing and showcasing any kind of human history at any point in time, especially not during the Renaissance. Often, they found that the things showcased were inaccurate and maybe even downright wrong. 

Not only that, they liked living in the moment, museums made them feel ancient.

Celestial standard time was nonlinear. Linear time was human, because their tiny minds couldn’t comprehend the thought that time was more fluid than water. Beings of Aziraphale and Crowley’s celestial age were like the age humans deemed it _revolting_ to remember how old they really were.]

"Yes, but never mind that!" Crowley huffed, crossing his arms. "What kind of sorry excuse for a historical museum doesn't touch up on the paint jobs!"

Aziraphale blinked up at the statue. "Well, they did just steal these from foreign countries. I don't know what to tell you, dear, these buildings are just over-glorified trophy cabinets."

"That's beside the point," Crowley seethed, curling in on himself. "This used to be such a colourful piece, now it looks like, like—"

"Like a black and white photograph?"

"No, that's the thing. Black and white photos still have that—that thing where you know there’s colours there, just no hues or saturation.”

“Value?”

“Yeah, that, sure. This is just whitewashed bullshit," he groused.

Aziraphale hummed, considering the statue once more. "I see what you mean. A bit like a ghost, don't you think?"

Silence went on as Crowley weighed the pros and cons of burning everything the gift shop had on the statues. Slowly, the smell of smoke emanated from its general direction.

"Now, Ms. Ashtoreth, that’s not very sporting."

He snapped. "You weren't there, alright? This is—" _Important to me_ , he couldn’t say. He loved Aziraphale, his only friend, but he couldn’t just give him that kind of vulnerability.

Nearly five millennia* since The Great Purge and he couldn’t help but take it out on Aziraphale, Heaven’s only agent on Earth. He knew, alright, that the angel had no hand in it, that Heaven had done it to prevent evil from spreading all over Mesopotamia after the Fallen started producing heirs (read: demons). Crowley knew maybe even more than Aziraphale at this point, who Heaven thought was on a need-to-know basis, despite being their best asset.

[*Having been native long enough, both Aziraphale and Crowley have reached the point of measuring time like humans do. Six millennia float on longer Above and Below because nothing happens there, but neither of them care to know that.]

Greece and all of humanity’s static arts were his coping mechanism from that bloody Great _Purge_ that was sent through Earth and killed countless humans because Heaven hated the thought of the Fallen _creating_ something. Heaven wanted to forget that the Fallen were theirs once, that the Fallen were angels tasked to making stars and mountains, and fucking oceans. 

And here all that art was, things Crowley watched transform before his very eyes, therapeutic and nostalgic. Colours whitewashed, stowed away from their creators’ homelands, and here was Aziraphale saying that it _wasn’t very sporting_ of him to have a little bit of retribution for damages done?

Crowley took a deep breath and tapped his cane on the floor*. The smoke dissipated and the alarm stayed dormant. No fires came from the museum that day.

[* _Outside_ the museum, all the lights turned red and would not turn green for another thirty seconds, lasting longer for every time the light turned green.]

Aziraphale looked at him. Stared, really, bold and upfront in the oddest of ways. 

There were times throughout history that Aziraphale did this thing where he stared at Crowley as if he was trying to work out just what Crowley was—what kind of demon did things Crowley couldn't even justify to himself some lonesome nights? What kind of demon accepted commendations for things he didn’t do and couldn’t prevent? The Inquisition, the Holocaust, and countless other atrocities.

It used to send a thrill through him every time he noticed, to be seen, to be someone worth studying and knowing. This time was no different, of course, but Crowley was a bit too upset to bask in it.

Finally, Aziraphale sighed. "I see that it's important to you, dear girl. I’m sorry to have upset you. Let me make it up to you?”

It was just the kind of patronizing thing Aziraphale would say that Crowley felt his hackles lower just a tad.

With a sheepish look that made Crowley think Aziraphale knew he was being patronizing and wanted to stop but didn’t know how, he took Crowley’s sleeved arm and pulled him away from the statue. “Come along now, Ms. Ashtoreth. We have much to discuss, I believe. Then, after, we can do whatever you want."

After discussing Warlock’s growth, Aziraphale let him drag them onto their usual tourist double decker and aimed bird shit on random bothersome tourists as they stayed in traffic.

* * *

Per their arrangement, since Crowley had brought them to the Ritz six years ago, Aziraphale was due to be the one taking care of their assignments.

Mondays and Thursdays were Mr. Harrison’s time with Young Master Warlock, so Aziraphale was left in London while Crowley was left in the estate for several hours, dreadfully teaching the child things ranging from maths, civics, world history, and the Book of Revelations.

When the countdown to Armageddon started, Crowley hadn’t expected quotas to keep going, but since it was Hell, obviously they wanted him overworked despite having to work with the Antichrist and a hellcat named Mauler twice a fucking week*.

[*It was the same hellhound as Ashtoreth’s Rover, but Hell wanted him to be thorough and honestly, Harrison’s persona didn’t seem much like a dog person. It was good thing that Warlock wasn’t allergic to anything but bees and, like celestial beings, hellhounds had malleable corporations.]

“ _What ‘vibe’ do you have going this week, dear?_ ” Aziraphale’s voice crackled on the ansaphone that morning.

Crowley swept into his office with a swift pull at his necktie. He grabbed the phone handle before Aziraphale could tell him to call back. “I’m not helping you on a workday, angel. You’ve got to figure this out by yourself.”

“ _Oh, good morning, my boy! Getting ready?_ ”

“Yes. And I got your lesson plan* laid out here,” he said, clutching the sheaf in his hand. “Bloody Attila and Vlad, really? You know fucking Trump and Thatcher are out there, right? Complete atrocities without being obvious about their blasted Evil. Billionaires!”

[*Aziraphale oversaw the Antichrist’s curriculum since Hell gave Crowley loose reigns on how Warlock was to be educated. Those unimaginative buggers wouldn’t know a thing about subtle nudging if it poked them in whatever they saw out of. And since Crowley knew not a lick of rigorous educational curricula, Aziraphale was charged with faxing over their weekly lesson plans as Messers. Anthony Harrison and Ezra Cortese.]

“ _Really, dear,_ ” came the angel’s exasperated tone. “ _If you want to teach him something else, go ahead. I’ve outlined what concepts need to be assessed before the end of this week. I would have cleared this out with you but you insisted on napping for the rest of Sunday.”_

“It’s a God-given right to rest on Sundays, angel. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“ _Well, that aside. I need you to be a bit specific this time for the Arrangement. I might go a little overboard and cause suspicion. I’ll take the usual notes but if there are any specifics you want…”_

“It’s your choice, Aziraphale,” Crowley sighed. “But since I know you have issues with moderation, do something... I don’t know, headline-worthy. Good old scandal, all that.” With a grimace, he checked his wristwatch. “Listen, I need to get to the estate in a few minutes. Can you handle it?”

“ _Of course, dear. Have a wonderful morning and mind how you go._ ”

“You as well. I’ll see you later.”

* * *

Crowley spluttered, spilling wine on the paper.

“What in—Aziraphale!”

A feat of infernal power display, the phone lifted as the door to his office opened and made it so it had dialled Aziraphale’s landline as it did so. Crowley paid the trembling foliage no mind as he grabbed the receiver and glared down at the report on his hand.

“ _Hullo! I’m afraid we’re very much clo—_ ”

“You tell me not to burn down the blasted museum gift shop then proceed to—” Crowley took a deep breath, seething. “’Inspire thoughts of historical revisionism,’ angel, you buggering infernal genius! Oh, I could kiss you! Why didn’t I think of that?!”

Aziraphale let out a delighted laugh. “ _Oh, my dear boy, I’m glad you liked it. I really did feel just awful about how upset you were when we went to the museum and since you gave me free reign, well... Had to take the chance. Do you think it would hold up for a quota?_ ”

Crowley laughed. He didn’t even _think_ of the quota until Aziraphale brought it up*. “It’s—I mean, yeah! Of course, it would! It’s just the exact blend of long-term tempting and divine inspiration. And I suppose you took credit for ‘inspiring them to create the project and uncover the truth’ here?”

[*This is even though he was holding Aziraphale’s faxed draft of the report Crowley was about to send Below.]

“ _Naturally_.”

“Angel. I. I’m going to repay you*.” 

[*Throughout their history as companions and partners in crime, repaying each other for jobs on the Arrangement were the biggest insults they could give each other—in the vein of corporate elbowing. On Aziraphale’s side, it was saying that he’d done enough of a complicated temptation or torment deserving of, if not commendation, then celebration. On Crowley’s, it was Aziraphale telling him that he was so nice that he deserved an even _nicer_ thing to happen to him.

It was all done in good spirits, they both knew.]

Aziraphale, as expected, spluttered and denied and rejected. Crowley scoffed at this. “Keep your pants on. Tell you what, I will repay you… when we get out of this.”

At the sobering reminder of the Armageddon, Aziraphale was silenced. “ _Crowley…_ ”

“I’m saying _when_ , angel. Not if. We _are_ getting out of this whether you like it or not.”

“ _I—of course, love. I’ll… Well, I still say that it’s paramount that I do something nice for you for all the nice things you’ve done..._ ”

“No such thing, the only thing I’ve done this week is convince Warlock that Donald Trump is a role model of success, and I don’t think enough toothpaste is going to wash that out of _my_ mouth.”

With a huff, Aziraphale pushed through, “ _Nevertheless, I will… hold you to that promise. Maybe your repayment could even be saving the world…?”_

Crowley sat down on his desk. “What? Repayment can’t be something I want too!”

“ _Then why can’t you just let the statues thing slide? I wanted to do that for you! And I doubt[Brinkmann](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/true-colors-17888/) will be able to come up with a finished product until the late 2000s anyway, and we’re still rather unsure if that’s still going to happen, mind._”

Because it meant fucking something to Crowley, damn it. 

He glanced at the knife-thin ray of moonlight streaming into his office, at the way it glanced by the sketch of the Mona Lisa, framed and immaculate since the Renaissance. She stared at him, him in his half-buttoned up shirt, untied tie, wrinkled trousers and snakeskin boots. She stared at him, a demon with half an ear out for the voice of an angel who had done him this indescribable favour.

It meant a lot, the statues, the art. It meant that somewhere out there—even here inside his office—was a sign of Crowley’s grief and acceptance of the Almighty’s Great Middle Finger to the Fallen’s desire to Create, of his grief and acceptance of all the lives lost just because of that Great Middle Finger.

Five millennia since, Crowley didn’t think he was completely over it. Some nights, he could still hear the screams and sobs muffled in the whipping wind and endless rain. 

But there was something to be said about the art he’d inspired into Creation after, the sheer defiance of it. 

His own Great Middle Finger back at God for that blasted fucking Purge.

“ _Crowley?_ ” 

With a heavy breath, Crowley replied, “Yeah, angel. Still here. Sorry, er. A bit knackered, I s’pose. Snuck up on me. I’ll… You’ll know, when I’ve paid you back, alright? I’ll… find something.”

“ _I suppose I’ll just have to look out for it, then. Get some rest. Good night, dear._ ”

“Thanks. Night.”

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally just a thought experiment especially in the wake of my art appreciation course. but then i looked into it more and, well...
> 
> because immortals should have this... odd relationship with the arts and beauty (a fic that is coming up, by the way, watch out for that!), i tried to gear it more towards crowley's relationship to visual arts (because he's the bloke who likes this stuff) and his reactions to the modern world's reactions to the things he'd loved as he lived through it.
> 
> and while im a fan of using history to tell their love story leading up and through the apocalypse, i want to use history to flesh them out?
> 
> anyway. comments are appreciated! nearing half of january now, i hope y'all aren't falling over yourselves with worry about the state of the world. as aziraphale and crowley will think: it will all sort itself out.
> 
> -[tumblr](http://stubbornjerk.tumblr.com)\- -[twitter](http://twitter.com/stubborn_jerk)-


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